


I Kissed the Rim of Morning

by orphan_account



Series: Sherstrade Domesticity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grounding, Implied Sherstrade - Freeform, Love, M/M, Passion, Sherstrade, Viclock, protective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9549119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock flicked his eyes between Greg's left and right brown pools of emotion, uncertain where to settle his gaze for fear he'd miss something in one eye if he looked to the other. 'If you really wanted it, you'd make it possible.'





	

'...I stood in the bedroom listening to the painfully aggressive way in which he insisted on yelling my name; I could feel the vibrations as he slapped his hand against the panels of the door.' Sherlock heaved a deep sigh through his nose, twisted his lips to the side, and exhaled slowly with his blue eyes searching Greg's face for a validation to all the feelings he was experiencing but wasn't actually able to voice. If nobody else in the world would ever believe Sherlock truly did experience _feelings_ , Greg Lestrade at least did. 

The older man shook his head. 'That's rough,' he offered as he exhaled a huff of ghostly smoke through his nostrils.

'I heard him leave about an hour later; he only stopped beating against the door a few minutes before that. We'd been drinking, and still he took the car,' Sherlock frowned, his brow creasing right down to the bridge of his nose. He righted his expression again, smoothing out his forehead, and looked at Greg. 'I wanted to use - I still want to. Barely anything is louder in my mind right now than that screaming need to pierce my skin and know it's going to feel so much... _better_ in seconds.' He wet his lips with a quick flick of his tongue. 'And I ended up here. I'm sorry.' 

'Don't be,' Greg said quickly and sat forwards, stubbing out the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on the drinks table in the middle of his lounge floor. 'I'd sit up at three am every morning with you if it stopped you from going down that road, and you know it.' He sat back again and watched Sherlock's nervously flicking fingers fidget mercilessly in his lap as he perched in the armchair diagonally to his left. His right knee bobbed up and down, placing permanent creases into the toe of his leather shoe. 'Do you know where Victor is now?' 

Sherlock shook his head, vibrating the three dark spirals that rested on his tense forehead. 'I have no idea; with a friend, perhaps. Or he's at his flat with a bottle of Hennessy and a twenty pack.' The attempt at humour was belied by Sherlock's inability to lighten his eyes or force a smirk to his tight lips. 

Greg rubbed his right hand across his face and then swept it back through his hair, finally resting it in a cup around his neck before dragging his arm back down again in a sigh. 'And the argument started over my text?' 

Sherlock shook his head fiercely, 'No. It started because he'd been snorting cocaine and he was pissed off...' he defended quickly. 

'Pissed off over me sending you a text about the Jefferson trial,' Greg reiterated. 'I'm sorry, Kid. The way you've talked about him in the past - not that you've said much - I mean, I assumed...I just got the feeling he was a posh git you'd just stuck with...' he jarred his mouth open, not sure what he was even trying to say but sure it wasn't coming out right. 

'Stop doing that,' Sherlock drew his hands apart in his lap and raised both of them to his face, briefly cupping his face before dropping them again in nervous, tense energy without a place to disperse. 

Greg frowned at him, 'Doing what?'

'Calling me _Kid_ in that tone, that Dad tone; stop trying to distance me from where I was last week. You know why I came here. I'm here because I knew you'd let me in; because I wanted you to let me.' He took a deep breath, 'Because you let me in last time.' 

Greg's brows crooked in realisation, 'Sherlock, that was... it wasn't supposed to have happened, you know that. We both agreed it wasn’t fair...' 

Sherlock shook his head, 'You made an argumentative point and I accepted it; I didn't agree.' He insisted. 'I don't care about you being older than me, I don't care about your stupid ex-wife or that you've got two kids. Victor lost his mind with me tonight because I told him this, _all of this_. I told him what happened last week, that I wanted _you_.' 

Greg closed his eyes, loving the sound and hating the implications, 'Sherlock...' 

'Don't silence me,' Sherlock got to his feet and was quickly on the sofa beside Greg, his long legs bringing him across the void in one fluid step. 'If I'm wrong, if you wish you hadn't opened the door and let me in, then open your mouth and say it in that many words. If you really regret last week, then say it to me now and I'll go. ...and I won't come here, and I won't push...' 

'Of course I don't regret it, you stupid git, how could I?' Greg launched, completely and utterly impassioned. 'You're the strangest thing I have in my life; the most interchangeable and yet solid and fucking reliable thing. Why the hell would you ever think I regretted opening that door to you tonight, last week, last year?' He twisted in the seat and cupped his hands around Sherlock's cheeks. 'It cannot work, we both know that, but it doesn't mean for a single second that I don't want it.' 

'It can,' Sherlock flicked his eyes between Greg's left and right brown pools of emotion, uncertain where to settle his gaze for fear he'd miss something in one eye if he looked to the other. 'If you really wanted it, you'd make it possible.' 

Greg slowly pulled his hands down from Sherlock's face and replaced his attention with that of his lips, silencing Sherlock's argument by pushing his lips hard against the younger man's, pushing himself up awkwardly to meet Sherlock's height in his odd positioning. And Sherlock was still, pliable to the Detective Inspector's leading movements; comforted by the feel of his two-day stubble and the taste of cigarettes and coffee, by the smell of aftershave and musk, but the familiar way in which he huffed breaths hungrily through his nose, too greedy to break the kiss. In a swift movement commanded by Greg, Sherlock was easing backwards on the sofa until his body was stretching the length with the older man’s frame a comforting weight above him. The kiss had barely paused for a nano-second, and was growing more hungry with every tick of the second hand on Sherlock’s watch. 

Sherlock placed both hands onto Greg’s chest and somehow found the strength to push the man ever so slightly away from him. He shook his head as Greg’s wide and longing eyes glanced down at him, and he breathed in shallow pants from his open, kiss-bruised mouth. ‘Don’t kick me out - when you wake up next to me and you remember what we did, don’t kick me out.’ 

He looked frightened, serious beyond any previous words he had uttered, and Greg felt his heart pound impossibly faster. ‘I won’t lie - I’m scared shitless, but the last thing I want to do is spend another week walking on eggshells because I know I fucked it up.’ Sherlock’s lips quirked in the smallest of smiles, just in the corner of the left side of his mouth, but Greg saw it and held it with his eyes until it faded. He lowered, giving his entire weight to Sherlock again, and touched his lips butterfly-soft to Sherlock’s. ‘I miss you too much, Kid.’ He dropped his head again and took Sherlock’s mouth in a passionate assault. Quiet, peppered kisses became noisy and heated, hands moved and pinched, grasping at stubborn fabric to tear it away. Fingertips danced across cooling skin, goosebumps erupted… and fear fell away into lust, into _love_ once again being displayed in the physical. Every feeling that could not be brought to words was acted out in touches, kisses and sighs. 

 

They were sleeping, curled painfully but contentedly on the sofa, when the curtains let morning light bleed through to bring the day to its inevitable start. Sherlock stirred first; his body was cool in its nudity, but Greg’s arm was warm where it lay around his middle. How they both fit on the couch, Sherlock wasn’t sure, but he was happy that they did. His eyes blinked languidly, pushing away the hour or so of post-coital sleep he had drifted blissfully into, and he smiled to himself in the silence. Greg’s deep, sleep-heavy breaths were soothing in his ear. He closed his eyes again and melted himself into the warm embrace. Morning had never felt so promising, and he grasped tightly to the hope that it would be fated to last.


End file.
